Harry Potter and the Privet Drive Murders
by Tom Reagan
Summary: Vernon Dursley gets his wish after the first letter to Harry James Potter is duly confiscated; no more letters ever arrive. For Rubeus Hagrid has been brutally murdered, and soon Harry is fighting a desperate battle for survival in the suburbs of Surrey.
1. Cherry Ice Cream

**Disclaimer:** Don't worry. None of these characters are even remotely mine.

**A/N** - _Be warned, this story is going to be quite dark, although I'll try to keep it vaguely upbeat with some touches of black comedy._

* * *

The Giant was dead.

His dark red blood covered the dining room window of No. 4, Privet Drive, seeping slowly downwards until the entire pane was obscured.

The lamppost outside bathed the room in crimson.

The pale, formless lump of a corpse had been dragged from the house's roof a while ago, and now the only signs that all was not right in Privet Drive were the lattice of crime-scene tape crisscrossing the lawn, and the colossal bloodstains, punctuating the entire front of the house like a gargantuan comma.

In the living room, Mr and Mrs Dursley were clutching hot mugs of tea, and trying to answer the nice Inspector Bloom's questions as well they could.

In the kitchen, two young boys were sat huddled on chairs. The younger boy looked to be about eleven, and had jet-black hair that spiked up in a thoroughly asymmetrical way. The older boy was simply a mound of quivering flesh, a true testament if ever there was one to the dangers of granting a greedy child its every wish.

Police Officer Sarah Harris brushed a lock of auburn hair from her forehead, and decided to try talking to the black-haired boy again – he seemed to be the most responsive. First though, she took another swig of coffee; comforting traumatised kids was tiring, and incredibly dreary. Inspector Bloom had only made her do it because of the incident with his Mercedes yesterday – it was definitely Jon's turn to take on some of the drudgery, but yet again she was stuck in a cramped kitchen trying to stop preadolescents from going into shock-induced comas, whilst Jon was outside searching for clues.

And damn, but this was the most interesting homicide they'd had in donkeys' years.

She ground her teeth, took another sip, and then spoke.

"So, Harry how's school at the moment?"

The boy stared blankly at her, and she couldn't help her eyes being drawn to the peculiar scar that was etched on his forehead. Almost like a lightning bolt.

"A letter came for me in the post this morning," he said suddenly, and without really looking at her.

"Oh yes?" she said perhaps a tad too enthusiastically.

"They wouldn't let me read it. Me and Dudley listened through the keyhole when they opened it, but I-I didn't understand…" he faltered, his blazing green eyes twitching, "and now the window's got cherry ice-cream all over it."

Sarah felt a pang of compassion well up in her. Apparently Harry had been the one to first see the corpse – doubtless the effect on his young mind of a lacerated and skinned human body had been horrific. It was unsurprising he'd blocked it out and pretended the red sheen coating all of the front windows was merely the result of a pissed off ice-cream vendor with a vendetta against the Dursleys.

* * *

Senior Auror Aaron Lestre of the oft-maligned M.I.I.M.D Unit (Muggle Involvement In Magical Deaths) was giving himself a quick haircut with his wand when the memo came, flapping into his office on charmed paper wings. He brushed the off-cuts of silver hair from his desk, uncurled the memo, and squinted down at it through his monocle.

"Well, I'll be damned..." he said slowly. After years of always being the last in the office, far underground in the Ministry of Magic, he'd developed a habit of talking to himself to fend off the sense that he was utterly alone in the wide, open plan space, and that no one would hear him scream if he was attacked by a rogue werewolf (spending so much time alone had also allowed his imagination to expand to new levels of paranoia).

Grimly, yet slightly pleased to actually have something to do— magical deaths involving muggles were sadly few these days—he stood up, worked the crick out of his neck, donned his velvet lined cloak, and headed towards the lift.

* * *

Precisely three hours, forty-five minutes earlier, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and proud owner of several other titles besides, was strolling along the edge of the lake, marvelling at the reflection of the moon dancing in the black water, when he stopped suddenly.

Fawkes launched off from his shoulder with a great keening cry.

Dumbledore knelt on the muddy ground, his beard and deep turquoise robes trailing in the muck, and wept a single tear, which ran down his wrinkled face.

"Oh Rubeus… Rubeus."


	2. Shadows

Harry stared up at the well meaning, but clearly bored out of her senses police officer who was looking condescendingly down at him. She was sipping reflexively on a stripped red mug, and it reminded him of-

_Rolling flesh, undulating towards him, blood, sticky and wet, dead black eyes, tissue torn around them, flaccid skin flapping gently in the breeze, thick, voluminous hair matted and heavy with crimson-_

The book he was reading, The Cat in the Hat. The eponymous cat's hat had been striped red and white too.

A man entered the kitchen, rubbing his hands together, his shoulders sagging under the weight of a worn leather jacket. Petunia and Vernon followed close behind, mute and dead eyed, like-

_Black, beetle eyes, dripping with mucus and welling pale liquid, squinting out from a mound of sliced flesh that sat, walrus-like on the roof, blood running down the plastic drains-_

The kipper he'd served Dudley for breakfast. Inspector Bloom was spewing perfunctory formalities to Vernon and Petunia:

"We'll call again tomorrow morning… don't worry, everything will be sorted out… yes… thank you very much for the tea… goodnight."

Before the Inspector had so much closed the front door, Dudley had run into his mother's arms, and she now caressed the back of his balloon-like head, swaying slightly from side to side in the middle of the kitchen. Vernon stood uncomfortably behind them, muttering something about keeping a stiff upper lip. He kept looking up at the window, then quickly down at the floor.

Harry, feeling alone and left out as usual, walked out into the hallway. The vile, numb feeling that had been pounding in his head since… since… he'd seen… it… had diminished now, and he decided to think about something else. He'd read somewhere that doing other things was a good way of keeping your mind off stuff you didn't want your mind to be dwelling on.

He glanced down at his watch, and then, without thinking, he slipped on his wellies and opened the front door, intending to put out the bins – it had been one of his many jobs for the last few years.

Walking out onto the front step, he ran slap bang into the back of the Inspector, who was talking heatedly to another, younger policeman.

"…What the hell d'you mean, there's nothing?" the Inspector was saying gruffly.

"I-I don't understand it either, but I swear, me and Hugh've been sweeping the whole area—roof, garden, road—everywhere within thirty metres of where the corpse was discovered, and we've found bugger-all. No sign of a weapon, no footprints, no signs of a struggle, no fingerprints – zilcho. God damn fu–"

Inspector Bloom finally noticed Harry, who'd been knocking feebly on the back of his coat, and he cut off Jon with a gesture.

"Oh, er, Harold isn't it? Why don't you go back inside, I'm sure your mum and dad –"

"Are you talking about the murder?" said Harry abruptly, startled by his own audacity, and sudden feelings of bravery.

"Er, yes, as it happens, we were," answered the younger man.

Harry's head was feeling much clearer now. He decided that thinking about the policemen's problem was just as distracting as taking out the bins.

"I found _it_, you know," he said proudly.

Both men glanced at each other; neither of them were surprised that the eleven-year-old hadn't connected the horrific mess he'd seen with a human being.

Inspector Bloom crouched down to Harry's level, and looked him in the eye.

"Could you describe to us exactly what happened?"

He motioned to Jon to get a notepad – they'd gotten the boy's testimony earlier, but he'd been too traumatised to say anything useful.

"I was sitting on my new bed, in my new room—it used to be Dudley's second room—and just thinking that I'd rather be in a cupboard with that letter," here Inspector Bloom wondered whether the boy was still in a state of shock, "when I heard a large bang, like, like a car crashing into a T-rex!" Harry was warming to his tale, "I rushed downstairs—they were all out at the cinema—and opened the door. At first I thought it was raining. Then I looked up."

He stopped.

"Apart from the... it… did you see anything unusual either before or after the large bang?" said Inspector Bloom.

Harry paused, thinking hard, concentrating all his might on trying to remember anything but the… the…

After a few moments, it came to him.

"I was probably just imagining it, I suppose, but, for a few seconds – I thought I heard someone laughing. It hurt my ears."

* * *

Senior Auror Lestre appeared with a pop in a cul-de-sac a few blocks from Privet Drive.

"Bloody stupid Apparition, doesn't ever land you where you want…" he grumbled as he set off trudging down the dark road, the only illumination infrequent streetlamps – the moon was obscured behind a screen of thick black clouds.

He shivered in his robes as he walked, and muttered a couple of warming spells, although they didn't seem to have much effect.

"British weather," he complained mildly to himself, "only in Britain would a bloody July night feel like the bloody Antarctic."

He shivered again, as, rising unbidden from his mind, came memories from over a decade ago at the height of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's power, when often the worst killings would be heralded by a deathly frost throughout the entire country, even at the height of summer…

He was almost at the left turning that lead into Privet Drive now—number four, the memo had said—and he pulled his wand from his tweed waistcoat and twirled it reflexively. It was just a formality, but the old Auror traditions died hard (_3. Always draw your wand when nearing the crime zone. 4. Always operate in trios…)_. Really, he probably should have called up Abram and either Mildred or Linkler and got them to come with him, but he just hadn't wanted to go through the hassle of getting them out of bed at midnight, only to find that poor old Rubeus Hagrid had keeled over of a hernia in front a shocked tramp. Nothing exciting happened any more. Dryly, he reflected that that should be a good thing.

He stopped.

Ahead, parallel to the glinting sign that proudly marked the beginning of Privet Drive, something had moved. He could have sworn it.

Quietly, he whispered, "_Lumos_," and his wand lit up with an unreal, milky efficacy, bathing the road in front of him, and the sign, in light.

Nothing.

He took a step forwards-

_There._ A couple of feet from the sign. A slight ripple in… the air? No, that couldn't be right.

The ripple widened.

Distinct concentric circles of kinetic energy could now be clearly seen radiating from a point hovering about the road, moving across what seemed to be some sort of see-through wall.

Right then and there, he should have Apparated straight back to the Ministry and got some backup at least. But perhaps it was just his paranoia. He _must _just be going a bit senile. Because he'd seen enough High-Durability, Apparition-Repellent Prismatic Wards in his time to recognise one for what it was, and there was _absolutely no reason_ for there to be one stretching right across a street in _Surrey_, for Merlin's sake.

He walked towards the swelling ripples.

He knew he was being stupid, but adrenaline was pumping through him, his heart hammering fit to burst, and he hadn't experienced this sort of… excitement for so, so long, he couldn't just end it now…

His foot touched the ripple just as dark shadow, low-slung above the tarmac and more like an absence of hope than of light, flitted through the ripple and past him.

And then he'd taken another step, and the ripples had vanished, the shadow was gone as fast as it had appeared, and the night was still.

Lestre leant against a post-box, breathing heavily, and chuckling at himself. Of course there hadn't been a _High-Durability, Apparition-Repellent Prismatic Ward, you stupid geriatric dunderhead._

He walked on towards No. 4, his swishing robes casting long shadows on the pavement.

* * *

Dumbledore ran his eyes across the assembled group of witches and wizards who stood uncomfortably in the cramped front room of a dilapidated hunting lodge on the Yorkshire moors, the old headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said thickly, "but I had matters to attend to."

Mundungus Fletcher mumbled something sarcastic about having nothing better to do than wait around in cramped front rooms.

"I have called you here today because I have tragic news. Our dear friend and ally, Rubeus Hagrid, is dead."

There was a hushed silence.

A chill seemed to descend in that cramped front room in a hunting lodge on the Yorkshire moors, and the shadows seemed to deepen.

"Where?" said Mad-Eye, his face set and grim.

"No. 4, Privet Drive," said Dumbledore simply.

There was another shocked silence.

Molly Weasley whispered what they were all thinking, "Harry…?"

"He is safe, for the moment, I know that much," said Dumbledore, "but I know very little else. Arthur, can you keep things quiet at the ministry – we don't want Fudge wallowing in. Severus – you know what to do. Remus –" he paused. "Where is Remus?"

"He was in London yesterday," said Tonks quickly, "I've no idea where he is now."

Dumbledore looked up at the ceiling, as if his steely grey eyes could see straight through the roof of the hunting lodge and out into the dark night above. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. And if it wasn't for the fact that this was _Dumbledore_, the greatest wizard in the world, scared of nothing, not even death, several of those present would have sworn there was a slight quiver in his voice.

"The moon is full."


	3. The Masked Man

The police officers finally left after another forty minutes of arguing, searching the lawn and collecting blood samples (there were enough of those to supply a hospital for months). Harry watched from his new room as they climbed into their car, the rear lights pools of red in the darkness.

With a groan like a tortured beast, the engine roared into life, and the car accelerated down Privet Drive. Its indicator flicked on as it prepared to zoom around the corner and out of sight, and Harry turned from the window, looking around him at the multitude of old toys that Dudley had mangled at one time or another.

He decided to go downstairs and talk to the Dursleys; anything was better than sitting here and letting his thoughts wander inevitably back to—

He trudged down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Dudley seemed to have recovered via the aid of several bowls of ice cream which were piled, licked clean, to his left – he was currently wolfing down what looked like his ninth bowl with gusto. Petunia could be heard in the living room, also apparently recovered somewhat, at least enough to relate what had happened '_on the very roof of__ our house!'_ to one of her fellow gossip addicts.

Vernon was slumped, whale-like, on the complaining sofa, idly flicking his moustache as he watched the news with the volume down.

Harry decided that now was as good a time as any, and strolled as nonchalantly as he could manage up to Vernon.

"Excuse me, Uncle, but would you mind telling me what was in that letter I was sent this morning—"

Vernon looked up at him, as if he'd forgotten Harry had been living in his house for the last decade.

"I told you, it was a wrong address," he said gruffly.

Harry decided to play his trump card.

"You don't suppose… it was to-do with what happened this evening, do you?"

Vernon froze. Harry could almost hear the cogs clanking into motion inside his head. Under his breath, Harry distinctly heard him muttering something about it being _"just like those freaks… probably their idea of the proper way to stamp an envelope…"_

"So, er, maybe we should give that letter to the police, y'know, for evidence," said Harry. He was thinking that once the letter was out of the Dursleys' hands and in some sort of box in a police station, it would be much easier to get a look at it. But Vernon was having none of it.

"No, no, couldn't do that, I've shredded it anyhow."

Harry felt his hopes sink–

–Just as the lights went out with a faint _ping._

From the other room came the sound of Petunia screaming and dropping the phone, and from the kitchen filtered Dudley's yammering whimpers. Vernon rose from the sofa, swearing under his breath, and fumbling for a match on the mantelpiece.

Harry tried to find the door to the hallway, but ended up bumping painfully into the coffee table.

Finally, after several attempts, Vernon struck a match, and the whooshing yellow glow filled the room, dancing in the French windows.

And Harry stared, petrified, at the man whose skull-like mask was pressed up against the glass.

* * *

Police Officer Sarah Harris fiddled tiredly with her nails as the cruiser revved away from No. 4 Privet Drive and towards the turning at the end of the street. An oppressive silence had descended in the car, none of them wanting to address the fact that they'd left the murder scene with practically no primary evidence. At all. It was simply unheard of. Wryly, Sarah wondered whether this would make the case easier to solve, if she were in some fantastical detective novel – Poirot, or Sherlock Holmes—

Sarah was suddenly slammed against Jon's shoulder as the cruiser attempted a rapid 180-degree turn and ended up crunching, with a screech of protesting tyres and a loud thump, into the Privet Drive street sign.

"Hugh, what the—" Jon's last word was obliterated by the loud bang of air bags activating. Several seconds too late, of course.

Sarah kicked open her door and stumbled out into the night, quickly followed by Jon. Hugh and Inspector Bloom were likewise soon standing panting on the road, their heartbeats gradually decelerating.

The cruiser had left a smoking, and very impressive, pair of skid marks on the tarmac, mounted the curb, and then neatly demolished the street sign. Thankfully, the car itself seemed to be relatively unscathed. Although the thick black smoke pouring from the bonnet was probably not a good sign…

Hugh, who'd been driving, was staring unbelieving first at the road, and then the cruiser, as if his mind would not believe what his eyes were telling it.

"I… I didn't just do that, did I?" he said haltingly.

Inspector Bloom eyed him icily, hands plunged into the pockets of his leather jacket.

Sarah shivered in her uniform; it was a remarkably chilly night for July. She began to walk towards the front end of the car, intending to check the true extent of the damage, but just as she reached level with the flattened street sign—

Sarah shivered in her uniform; it was a remarkably chilly night for July. She began to walk back towards Jon, who was rubbing his side – he might have broken a rib or something. If that was the case, she'd have fun _ribbing _him about it. She smiled at her own terrible pun.

"Hugh, for God's sake, we're freezing out here. Check if the damn thing'll start," snapped Inspector Bloom.

Dutifully, Hugh clambered back into the car. He twisted the ignition, and an unhealthy growl rumbled from the bonnet. The smoke thickened.

Hugh was just clambered back out of the car, when he stopped, one leg on the ground.

"Inspector, I think… I think we hit someone…"

Horrified, Sarah looked to where Hugh was pointing. Two worn-looking boots were just poking out from beneath the cruiser.

"Quick, get him out from under there!" yelled Bloom. Jon and Hugh grabbed one boot each, and, as gently as they could, dragged the heavy body out into the road.

The elderly man was clothed strangely, in what looked like a deep green velvet dressing gown, and he clasped a longish twig in one hand. Sarah knelt down to check his chest for a heartbeat. Her hands came up sticky with blood.

* * *

Harry screamed, and catapulted himself backwards into the side of the sofa.

Surprised by the boy's sudden exclamation of utter terror, Vernon dropped the match, which promptly went out.

Scrambling over the side of the sofa towards Vernon, who he could just make out in the darkness and who suddenly seemed like one of the nicest, safest people in the world, Harry could feel his heart pounding like a howitzer.

He reached Vernon and threw his arms over the man's substantial knees, sobbing into his waist, just as there was an awful scraping sound from behind, a flash of ice-blue light, and then the sound of shattering glass.

Vernon, shocked by Harry's limpet-like behaviour, but now aware that someone was trying to break in through his French windows (_which had cost several thousand pounds to install!_), snatched up an expensive plastic vase from the mantelpiece and waded forward, narrowly avoiding the sofa, eyes fixed on the silhouette now outlined by the jagged edges of the French windows. Realising that his refuge was now _moving towards_ the scary guy in the skull mask who'd just blown open a window, Harry released his grip on Vernon's shins and darted in the direction he hoped was the doorway. He struck lucky, and instead of bouncing painfully off a wall found himself racing through the hallway.

From behind, he heard Vernon roaring:

"I'LL TEACH YOU TO SMASH MY FRENCH WINDOWS!"

"_Stupefy._" The dry, lazy voice cut through Harry like a razor, and he froze, motionless, in the middle of the hallway. He had no idea what the voice had just said, but it didn't feel like just a normal word—

Harry heard Vernon's body crash to the carpeted floor like a felled tree.

Then he began to run again. He burst into the kitchen, and, eyes now growing accustomed to the dark, saw the cowering forms of Petunia and Dudley before he collided with them.

He quickly backtracked, turning towards the stairs—

The man stood in front of him, blocking his way with the assurance of an armoured vehicle.

He was wearing long black robes and a hood, and Harry felt his fear-addled mind conjuring up and comparing images of Emperor Palpatine, before he was yanked back to reality by the man's skull mask. It leered down at him, silver and glinting, sharpened teeth giving it a predatory and animalistic look. Its eyeholes were large and entirely without even a pinprick of light.

The man was raising one gloved hand, in which he held loosely a long, polished black stick of wood. He pointed it straight at Harry's chest.

"_Stu_—"

"_EXPELLIARMUS!_"

The front door burst open, the masked man's wooden stick flew out of his hand, and standing in the doorway stood a shabby, careworn-looking man, with mousy hair and a scar that sliced across his face.

The masked man scrambled backwards for his stick of wood, and the shabby man stepped into the hallway.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_"

The masked man slumped to the ground, rigid as a board, and Harry stared, wonderstruck, at his saviour.

"Harry, are you okay?" asked Remus Lupin.


	4. Confusion Reigns

In the cramped front room of a dilapidated hunting lodge on the Yorkshire moors, Minerva McGonagall stepped forward.

"Albus, you don't think…"

Dumbledore brought his gaze down from the heavens, his brow creased.

"Albus?"

"It is mere coincidence, I suspect," he said with a sigh, "doubtless Remus is curled up in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, in case the clouds lift. Well, at least that accounts for why he is not present."

"How long has it been since Hagrid's death?" asked Sturgis Podmore.

Dumbledore drew from beneath his brilliant purple robes a bizarrely birdlike contraption, and passed it slowly under his nostrils, sniffing deeply.

"Just under five hours—"

"Why didn't you summon us earlier?" growled Mad-Eye, "The killer will be long gone now, and those blasted muggles will have destroyed all the evidence!"

"Calm yourself, Alastor," said Dumbledore, "Almost immediately after Fawkes informed me of Hagrid's death, I received messages from two Patronuses. One was from Arabella, saying that Harry was safe, and the other was from the Ministry, calling for aid after a break-in. Clearly, the killer Apparated straight to the Ministry as soon as they'd disposed of the magical evidence – and they will have, mark my words; any wizard powerful enough to kill Hagrid will be more than capable of covering their tracks. I arrived just too late – the killer had already taken what they'd come for. A time-turner."

"But how did they get into the Department of Mysteries?" said Hestia Jones, a plump raven-haired witch.

"They didn't," said Dumbledore grimly, "the killer intercepted an Auror taking one out of the Ministry, for a Hogwarts student with timetable problems, in fact. An entire lift was consumed by Fiendfyre. I have spent the last few hours attempting to track the killer's Apparition traces; I chased them three times around the globe, for they soon detected that they were being followed, but they finally lost me in the Bermuda Triangle. And then I summoned you all."

"I will see what I can find out," said Snape, before popping into nothingness.

"Someone from M.I.I.M.D will've already been notified," said Arthur, "but I'll do what I can."

Then he too vanished.

"I will inform Arabella that we are coming to Little Whinging," said Dumbledore, as the rest of witches and wizards prepared for Apparition.

Dumbledore drew his wand.

"_Expecto Patronum."_

An ethereal silver twin of Fawkes sprang from the glowing tip of Dumbledore's wand and soared into the air, before dissolving with a flash of pure light.

"Sturgis and Molly, stay here and stay in contact via Patronus. Emmeline, go to the muggle mortuary and kindly save Hagrid's body from the muggles' prying scalpels," said Dumbledore.

"Of course, Albus."

Another pop, and the immaculately dressed witch was gone.

"Now, Dedalus and Bill, when we enter No. 4 you can take care of the Dursleys' memories—"

There was a flash of pure light, and a silver phoenix glided into existence. It settled upon Dumbledore's right shoulder and then spoke, in an emotionless imitation of Dumbledore's voice.

"Arabella Figg could not answer, for she has no tongue."

* * *

A pounding filled his ears.

Lestre opened his eyes, and saw dancing spots of red, a tired face crowned with auburn—

It was too much effort, and his eyelids slid shut once more.

Words filtered through the pounding like warm surf against his eardrums.

"Phone the ambulance… collapsed lung, I reckon… who d'you think he is, a children's magician?"

He opened his eyes again, and this time the red spots danced with less enthusiasm, and his eyelids felt less like they were made of marble.

A woman stared down at him, dressed in a strange blue muggle outfit.

He seemed to be lying on a road, and three more muggles were standing around him, one holding a peculiar thin black brick to its ear. An ugly muggle contraption was smoking silently off to the right, its yellow eyes burning in the darkness, like some terrible metal dragon.

"Damn it, no bloody signal," said one of the muggles, as he roughly stuffed the thin brick into a pocket.

Lestre looked down at his chest, saw the wet stain of blood, and then the pain came crashing down on him, throbbing daggers in his abdomen and chest. But he had taken much worse, over the years, and he gritted his teeth and reached for his wand, which was lying on the tarmac just beside his left hand. For a few agonising seconds his numb fingers groped for the polished oak, before finally closing around it.

He brought his wand up and poked it into his chest, muttering incantations of healing under his breath. The muggles had stopped whatever they were doing, and were all staring at him, mouths agape. _Ah well, can't be helped_, he thought with an inward sigh; a quick memory charm would repair his flagrant breach of the Muggles Secrecy Act, and no one would be any the wiser.

Within a few seconds, the glowing tip of his wand had knitted his torn flesh back together, and vanquished the pain completely. He stood up, shaking the cramp out of his legs.

The muggles were still staring.

_Ah, now for the memory charms_—

And that was when the police car exploded.

* * *

Harry backed rapidly away from the stranger who'd just broken down the front door.

"Ah, of course, you don't know who I am," said the stranger. He suddenly looked over his shoulder, back out into the night. The moon was still shrouded in a thick web of bulging charcoal clouds. For a moment, it looked as if the stranger was about to step back outside, but then he blinked, rapidly, and turned back to Harry.

"C-can I come in?" he said.

Harry didn't answer. Right about now, he desperately wanted the police to come back, or for Uncle Vernon to storm into the hallway, rubbing his head and yelling at the stranger to get out. There was something… _wrong_ about him something at odds with his kind, careworn face and faded, moth-eaten tweeds.

The stranger closed the front door gently, and went over to the rigid form of the masked man. Harry wondered what on earth the stranger had done to the masked man to make him so… still. Frozen like a statue.

For several seconds, the stranger bent over the masked man, his back obscuring him from Harry's vision.

"_Finite Incantatum_," the stranger whispered.

Immediately there was a pop, like the sound of a balloon bursting, and when the stranger straightened up, the masked man was gone.

Harry's brain wouldn't process it.

The man had been there, lying on the ground, just seconds before, and then—

"How… wha… where…" Harry trailed off.

The stranger just stared at him, blinking rapidly.

Finally, Harry blurted out, "Who are you, and how do you know my name?"

"A fair question. Hmmn. Why don't we sit down."

Harry led the stranger into the living room - Dudley and Petunia were still cowering in the kitchen.

Harry sat on the sofa, having circumnavigated Vernon's unconscious form, which lay flopped on the carpet. The stranger entered behind Harry, and clocked Vernon with some measure of surprise.

"I think it would be better to leave him as he is, for the moment. I'm sure a rest will do him some good, anyhow," said the stranger, as he carefully stepped around Vernon's legs and settled himself on the armchair opposite Harry.

"You can… revive him?" asked Harry.

"Of course, it was merely _stupefy_—oh, sorry, I forgot, you've no idea what I'm talking about."

"Er, no. Sorry," said Harry, still utterly bewildered.

"I can at least fix that, though," said the stranger, as he flicked his twig-thingy at the shattered French windows, "_Reparo."_

Instantly, the glinting shards of glass _flew_ from the floor and arranged themselves in mid air in the frame, before melting back together into a single pane.

Like… well, _magic_, Harry thought dryly. His brain still hadn't finished processing the vanishing man. He wondered if his head would explode, were it to be subjected to any more physical impossibilities.

"You're not a… wizard, are you?" said Harry, trying to smile at his own joke.

"Why yes," said the man with dead seriousness, "I am."

It was at that point that Harry's brain gave up on processing the vanishing man, and decided that Harry was either dreaming, hallucinating, or dead (in which case this was a very peculiar afterlife).

"And so were your father and mother, Harry, and so are you," continued the wizard, stroking his chin reflectively, and now and then glancing out of the French windows into the darkness beyond.

Harry tried to mumble something, but his brain wouldn't let him. _You're dreaming! _it screamed at him, _you're dreaming!_

"Who are you, and how do you know who I am? And how did you know my parents?" Harry finally managed to blurt out.

"My name is Remus Lupin. I've known your parents since I was at school with them. I know you because I saw you often before your first birthday, and also because you _are_ the Boy Who Lived."

He chuckled.

"The Boy Who Lived? Don't all boys live?" Harry was becoming more confused by the minute. At this rate, his brain _would_ explode.

He reeled off the list in his head: so far today he'd _1) been sent a very bizarre letter, which he hadn't been able to read, 2) discovered a horribly mutilated corpse that he was trying to forget about, 3) been attacked by a psychopath in an Emperor Palpatine costume who'd knocked out Uncle Vernon, 4) then been saved by a stranger with a twig who'd made the man disappear, 5) this stranger could make glass fly, and claimed to be a wizard, 6) he claimed to have known his parents, and said that his parents were wizards, and that he, Harry was a wizard, and 7) Harry was apparently famous for being a 'boy who lived'._

Harry rubbed his forehead.

Remus Lupin, self-confessed wizard, was talking again, "No no, you lived when you should have died; that is what makes you special."

"I… what?"

"Look, I'll start from the beginning. Lord Vol-He Who Must Not Be Named, an incredibly powerful dark wizard, killed your parents, and tried to kill you, when you were just over a year old. But he didn't. The spell rebounded and hit him instead. So you're famous for killing the greatest Dark Lord who has ever lived."

He sat there, staring unbelieving at the man who was telling him that his parents were killed, not in a car crash, but by a_ spell. _A _spell. _He tried to equate the words 'Hocus Pocus!' being shouted loudly and the haunting half-memories-half-nightmares of his parents' deaths, and came up blank.

He decided to move on, and focused on the last part of Lupin's revelations.

"But… I'm not famous. I'm just a normal ten-year-old boy. Nobody's ever asked for my autograph or interviewed me or put me on telly—"

"Not in the _muggle _world, only in the wizarding world," said Lupin. He ran his hands through his mousy, unkempt hair, and glanced out the French windows once more.

"Look, I know this is very confusing for you, and I wish I had time to explain things properly to you, but take my word for it, you're a wizard, really rather famous, and there's a whole secret world that you have no idea about."

"And… I just have to take your word for it," said Harry incredulously.

"Have you got your letter yet? That'll explain everything."

And then it clicked. '_Hogwarts School For Witchcraft and Wizardry_' the envelope had read.

"So that's what that letter was…"

"You received it?" said Lupin.

"Yes, but I didn't get to open it – the Dursleys took it off me."

"Don't worry, I'm sure others will be sent very soon – there's a system for this sort of thing."

"So… did you go to… _Hogwarts_, Mr Lupin?" asked Harry, greatly relieved to hear that he _would _be able to read that letter.

"Yes, of course, every promising witch and wizard in Britain does."

"So, wait, that stick thing you have – that's your wand, right?"

Lupin nodded.

"But then… who was that man with the robes and the mask—"

A dark cloud seemed to pass over Lupin's face, and his scar twitched.

"Look—"

He paused, for something had caught his eye from outside the French windows.

Suddenly he stood up, limbs moving jerkily.

"I-I really must go, Harry, I'm sorry, I'm sure everything will be explained to you soon," he said with some effort.

Perplexed, Harry followed Lupin's gaze; the night had lightened, and the lawn outside the French windows was just beginning to be lit by faint shafts of luminescence.

For the clouds were lifting and the full moon, like a terrible silver face, was slowly revealing itself.


	5. Tongues

The living room in the semi-detached house on Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, was silent, bar the creaking of the rafters.

The only movement was a shadow, oscillating gently on the scorched carpet.

Until—

An explosion of loud popping sounds tore through the tranquillity of the room, and eight people were suddenly standing on the carpet, where previously no people had been standing.

Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes peered out from behind his half-moon spectacles. His wand was gripped firmly in one hand and raised in an attacking stance. He surveyed the burnt carpet, the smashed photographs, windows and lamps, and the great gouges ripped from the cavity-insulated walls. Finally, his eyes settled on the air in the centre of the room, directly above the peculiarly moving shadow.

Dumbledore began to move towards the spot, but Mad-Eye was there first, his magical eye locked on the seemingly empty space.

"Alastor, quick, she's still alive," said Dumbledore with intense urgency.

"_Illusyium_," growled Mad-Eye.

Like a cloth was being pulled away, the air in the seemingly empty space vanished, and in its place hung Arabella Figg, swaying gently.

Dumbledore's Patronus had not lied. Mrs Figg's mouth was hanging slackly open, dribbling blood and entirely without a tongue. Instead, the tongue appeared to have been lengthened and stretched via some transfiguration spell, and was wrapped tightly around her neck in a noose. The other end was nailed to the old-fashioned wooden rafters. The wet flesh was straining with her weight, and her tartan slippers were dancing just above the carpet. Her eyes bulged beneath her grizzled grey hair, and it was clear by the deep marks that the tongue was cutting into her neck that she'd been left to hang slowly to death.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" hissed Minerva. The tension in the long strip of tongue instantly relaxed, and Dumbledore slashed it in half with a vicious wand gesture, before Minerva gently lowering the squib to the floor, where she slumped inanimate.

Hestia Jones hurried forward and ripped the tongue from around Mrs Figg's neck, before turning her onto her side. The raven-haired witch muttered a few healing charms, and the harsh welts on her neck faded.

"She'll live, Albus," she said, as she dabbed at the blood around the unconscious squib's mouth with a patterned handkerchief.

"Looks like she put up a helluva fight," said Bill, as he and Elphias Doge examined the smashed windows and devastated walls.

"Or he was just playing with her," Doge added sourly.

Mad-Eye's artificial eye was revolving at a furious rate. After a few seconds, he shook his head.

"No magical traces. He subdued her, strung her up, disillusioned her, and then spent considerable time disposing of any magical signature."

"I fear," said Dumbledore, "that we are dealing with the same person who murdered Hagrid and broke into the ministry."

Mundungus Fletcher was eyeing the two halves of stretched tongue, coiled on a cushion like German sausages, with some distaste.

"Hey, er," he gulped, "does anyone know where the loo is? I, er, don't feel too—"

At that moment, Dedalus Diggle leapt up from where he'd been sitting by Mrs Figg whilst Hestia administered healing charms.

"Look! Look! She's awake!" he squawked.

Indeed she was. Her eyes were blinking open and her lips desperately trying to mouth something—

A billowing gout of bright green flame burst out from between her teeth, consuming her entire head. Dedalus scrambled backwards, just as the flame began to etch fiery letters in the air above Mrs Figg's burning hair:

_**FANCY A SQUIB ROAST, DUMBLES?**_

And then below that:

_**2 – 0**_

Dumbledore just stood there, open-mouthed. Mad-Eye and Bill reacted quickly, dousing Mrs Figg with litres of magically conjured water, but it was too late. In a few fleeting seconds, the skin, tissue and muscle on Mrs Figg's face became a mass of bubbling flesh, and dribbled down her neck in molten rivulets.

For once in his life, Dumbledore gazed on, completely powerless. He seemed frozen like a statue, and his eyes were comparable only to those of a ghost.

Finally, the green flames died away, leaving just a shrivelled black skull. The stench of burnt flesh and hair filled the room, and Elphias, Minerva, Dedalus and Hestia were gagging into their robes. Mundungus had fled into the hallway.

Slowly, Dumbledore knelt down before the corpse, and, as if brushing away a ghostly strand of hair from her face, caressed the raw black bone with his fingers.

It turned to dust at his touch.

* * *

The blast wave came first, a rolling tsunami of heat and force that crashed into Lestre and the four muggles like a stampede of rhinos. Behind the blast wave billowed a great sucking fireball, a roaring inferno of bright orange.

In the fraction of a second after the synapses in Lestre's brain registered that his eyes had just seen a _colossal tongue of flame_ explode from the muggle machine several metres away, his Auror training and many years of experience kicked in, and he found his wand swishing upwards and the words erupting from his lips faster than he would have thought possible—

"_PROTEGO!_"

A shimmering blue shield sprang up around Lestre and the four muggles a millisecond before the rapidly expanding blaze would have engulfed them all.

Lestre braced himself against the tarmac with one hand, his other shaking visibly as his wand struggled to contain the energy impacting upon the shield. The female muggle was staring up at Lestre as he fought to hold the weight of the flames off them, like some amateur Atlas. There was no admiration or gratitude in her eyes, only intense shock and instinctive fear. The other three muggles were curled up in foetal positions, trying to keep as far away from the edges of the crackling dome of sparking blue that Lestre was only just managing to maintain against the fires still raging above it.

And then it was over. The explosion had spent itself, and Lestre sagged to the ground, his magic drained. The ethereal blue dome collapsed and vanished without a sound.

The female muggle was the first to rise. Darting forward, she whipped a pair of handcuffs from her jacket, pinned Lestre's limp arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs onto his wrists.

"Don't move!" she yelled, voice breaking, eyes wild, "I've no idea what the _hell_ you just did, but you are under arrest!"

"Please, you don't understand, I just saved you…" said Lestre faintly.

"Shut it!" barked Sarah, kicking Lestre in the back and sending him sprawling. She took in the road around them, covered as it was with pieces of flaming wreckage. She stared hard at the burnt out chassis of the car. She remembered it exploding—there must've been more damage than they thought when Hugh crashed it—and then the man had yelled something and—

She tried not to cry. _It can't have been real._

Shivering in the cold night air, and trying to repress her panic, she turned back to Hugh, Jon and Inspector Bloom, who had all now staggered to their feet.

"Wha-what just happened?" said Hugh.

Inspector Bloom made his way over to the prone form of Lestre.

"Quick thinking, Sarah," he called back to her, "Jon, try the station again, and then try the fire brigade."

Jon pulled out his phone, and dialled. They all waited with baited breath.

After a pause that felt like an age, Jon shook his head.

"No signal again."

For a while, they just stood there, as the smoke rose around them from the scorched tarmac.

Then there was a gargling from the ground; the man was trying to speak.

"Let me… explain…" he mumbled into the hard ground.

"Flip him over, Hugh, but be careful," said Bloom after a moment.

Tentatively, Hugh did so, being careful to only touch the edge of the man's arm, and for the shortest possible time. When the man had been rolled over, Hugh scampered quickly back to where Jon and Sarah were standing.

"I'm a…"

Lestre trailed off, trying to desperately to remember what these muggles called themselves – he recognised their uniforms from muggle studies, all those decades ago.

"A Bow Street Runner! I'm a Bow Street Runner too! I'm on your side!" he finally exclaimed with some euphoria.

"Inspector, I think we really, really need backup here," said Sarah, staring with horror at the crazed man in a singed dressing gown who was lying before them.

"He must be a nutter," whispered Hugh to Inspector Bloom, "C'mon, what else could he be?"

"What did you do after the car exploded?" asked Inspector Bloom slowly, his grey eyes locked on Lestre.

"Just a standard shielding spell," said Lestre matter-of-factly. _I'm going to have to Obliviate them all anyway…_

"Look," Lestre continued, "I'm looking for, what was it? Number five? No, number four, that's it, No. 4, Privet Drive. I believe this is the correct street."

All the muggles exchanged meaningful glances.

"And, er, what business do you have there?" queried Bloom.

"Why, to investigate the death of Rubeus Hagrid of course."

More exchanged looks, although these were more baffled than meaningful.

"How… how did you know?" blurted Hugh.

"Because he was a wizard, of course," said Lestre, "Look I can't go into that now. If you wouldn't mind unbinding my hands I'd be very grateful to be on my way."

Lestre struggled up into a sitting position.

"I'm very sorry, but you're going to have to come down to the station with us, at the very least—"

Inspector Bloom was cut off by a howl. An eerie, spine-chilling howl that made the hair rise on the back of their necks, and sounded _distinctly_ inhuman.

"Oh Merlin, what's a werewolf doing in _Surrey_?" lamented Lestre, squinting down the road.

"A-a what?" said Sarah.

Then a second sound pierced the night. But this time, it sounded _very much _as if it were made by a human. It sounded like a scream. The scream a young boy would make if he was utterly and completely terrified.


	6. Hunted

Mr Lupin had seemed nice, if a little eccentric. That was what Harry had decided. But now Harry was seriously contemplating rethinking that decision. Nice people didn't normally sprout cruel looking talons from the ends of their fingers and look at you like they wanted to eat you with their shiny rows of serrated teeth.

After he'd finished screaming Harry had watched, feet glued to the carpet in sheer terror, as the supposedly 'nice' Mr Lupin underwent what looked like extremely painful physical changes, ranging from an entirely new musculature to a thick coat of greasy grey hair that stuck up in spiky tufts all over his flesh. His shabby clothes had burst and split, falling limply to the floor, and his face had taken on the visage of a savage beast, perhaps a wolf, or a dog with an especially virulent strain of rabies. If Harry hadn't been feeling a warmness spread down his leg, and wondering what it would feel like to die, he would almost certainly have compared the twisted horror of a creature that stood bent double before him to… well, a lego werewolf toy that Harry enjoyed pitting against Indiana Jones.

The once-Lupin creature howled, a primal, keening cry, that belied both a deep sadness, but also quite a bit of insatiable hunger.

Harry ran.

He had no idea why hadn't done so before now, but that was beside the point. He tore past the once-Lupin creature and out of the living room; doubtless beating several sports day records. The once-Lupin creature spent a second or two flexing its bulging sinews and licking its canine lips, before it bounded after Harry.

Harry took the stairs three at a time, almost slipping and smacking headfirst into the landing, but just managing to clear it and land on his feet. He didn't need to look round to ascertain the position of the once-Lupin creature in relation to his own; he could hear it, panting behind him, could almost hear the viscous strings of saliva slopping from its jaws and melting into the pink-patterned carpet. It had reached the bottom of the stairs when Harry began pounding both his fists on Vernon and Petunia's locked door. Although he wasn't thinking particularly logically at the time, he'd instinctively made for the room in which the Dursleys were hiding, simply because if he could get between them and it, their combined bodyweight might just sate its hunger.

As was to be expected, the door didn't swing instantly open to reveal Vernon and Petunia lovingly inquiring if he was all right and offering to give him a hug to make him feel better. Instead, it stayed resoundly shut, locked, and probably bolted.

Harry heard the once-Lupin creature bound up the first four steps, its cruelly clawed feet ripping up the linoleum.

He banged again, with all his ten-year-old might, and felt pain shooting through his knuckles. Again, nothing happened, although he thought he heard muffled whispering.

The once-Lupin creature cleared another four steps with a single lolloping leap. Harry caught its stench now, a thick oozing tincture of decaying matter and human faeces.

He banged again on the door, so hard that he felt blood slicking his fists.

"Oh please, please, please, let me in, please, please, please—" he screamed through the door, as the once-Lupin creature reached the landing.

He watched, powerless, as it crept predator-like towards him, tongue lolling, diamond black eyes fixed on his throat.

It was five metres away, padding quietly forwards on all fours, gaunt hackles raised.

Four metres.

Three.

Harry didn't have the energy, or the drive to knock again. He was going to die, and he knew it. He began to tremble violently, and again warm fluid ran down his thighs.

Two.

Its jaw fell slackly open, in anticipation of the juicy flesh it would soon been tearing into, and its hind limbs stretched imploringly out, groping for Harry.

One.

In the end, it was Harry's terror that saved him. Just as the one-Lupin creature's outstretched claw slashed at his throat, Harry involuntarily took a step backwards and vomited straight into the creature's face. Partially digested carrot and sweetcorn mixed in gloupy brown milk splattered over the creature's eyes, nose and into its jaws, and it recoiled away from him, snarling and swiping at its own head.

Just as the once-Lupin creature had finished wiping most of the gunk out of its eyes and was raising its paw to strike again, the door clicked open. A thick arm shot out, grabbed Harry by his hair, and yanked him into the bedroom, before slamming the door firmly in the one-Lupin creature's face.

Harry, his throat raw with acid, stared up at the mountainous form of Vernon as he racked the bolt across and hefted the bedside table back into position in front of the door. He couldn't quite believe that the Dursleys had actually risked their own lives to save him. Harry felt genuine emotion welling up inside him, for the moment pushing back the raging fear.

Petunia and Dudley were on the bed, clutching each other and whimpering. Harry moved behind Vernon, whose beetle eyes were fixed on the door. A large hat stand was nestled in his hands.

For a few moments, there was only a faint growling from outside the door. Then there was a mighty thump, and the frame shook. The once-Lupin creature was throwing itself against the door, and Harry doubted the hinges would hold up for long against its frenzied assault.

"W-why did you let me in?" said Harry tentatively up at Vernon, after another splintering thump.

Vernon didn't answer immediately. There was another thump, and what sounded like a greater volume of splintering.

"Quiet, boy," said Vernon gruffly. There might have been a slight quiver in his voice, but Harry decided that it could safely be put down to the stress of the situation.

Thump-_splinter._

Thump-_splinter-splinter._

Thump-_splinter-crunch_-_splinter-splinter._

The door was bulging outwards now, straining against its bolt and heaving at the bedside table.

Vernon raised his hat stand—

The door splintered fully, tearing away from its hinges and sending the bedside table crashing to the floor. The once-Lupin creature sprang into the room, and made straight for Vernon.

Vernon swung the hat stand with a panicked yelp, and the varnished pole of wood cracked into the beast's head, knocking it sideways. But it was only a small reprieve, for the once-Lupin creature quickly recovered, and promptly tore the hat stand out of Vernon's grip, snapping it in two with its powerful jaws.

It looked like the end for Vernon. The creature spat out the pieces of wood, and threw itself onto Harry's rotund uncle, its momentum toppling him like a great oak. Harry tried to dive out of the way, but he didn't get far enough, and found his legs pinned beneath Vernon's considerable weight.

The creature's teeth fell on Vernon's bulging adam's apple, and Harry closed his eyes, waiting to feel the hot splatter of arterial blood on his face.


	7. Spontaneous Taxidermy

**A/N -**_ I just want to say thanks for all the very nice reviews. Of the issues that have been brought up, all of them (apart from the lack of police radios which is a silly mistake on my part) are meant to be perplexing and part of the gradually unfolding mystery; have no fear, there is an explanation for everything - I have it written down in a charmingly succinct form on a sheet of notepaper that is sitting beside my keyboard even as I type this overly verbose and unnecessarily elaborate addendum._

* * *

It never came.

Harry lay there in a self-imposed darkness, eyes screwed up tight, the hot warmth of his uncle's flabby left shoulder pressing him into the carpet.

He could hear the whimpering of Dudley and Petunia some distance behind him. He could hear the shallow breathing of Vernon above him. He could hear the feral, half-snarling mucus-laden rasp of the once-Lupin creature.

But there was no blood. No gush of bright red Kensington gore splashing across his face. No sudden transformation of the living, breathing uncle on top of him into a colossal cadaver.

After about nineteen seconds, Harry began to wonder why.

It took supreme effort, and several seconds of failed attempts, for Harry to bite the bullet and look up, twisting his neck most uncomfortably in the process.

He almost laughed.

Splayed on top of Vernon like a Pixar-animated starfish, was the once-Lupin creature. Or rather, a Pixar-animated starfish that had been transported via some arcane means directly from a still of the relevant motion picture, given a three-dimensional form, and then placed on top of Vernon as someone's idea of a joke.

Harry stopped almost laughing and started crying for some reason (the very recent near death experience might have had something to do with it), and Vernon heaved the Pixar-animated starfish once-Lupin creature 3D promotional still off himself. It hit the rich, cream, cake-like carpet with a thunk.

Vernon got slowly to his feet, and Harry followed suit, eyes only watering a little now.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley hadn't seemed to notice that a joyous miracle had saved their darling husband and/or father, and were still whimpering.

Vernon kicked the Pixar-animated starfish once-Lupin creature 3D promotional still hard in the back, and yelped slightly. Hesitantly, Harry knelt and ran his fingers along its spine. The fur was rock hard, each hair possessing what seemed like the structural integrity of an earthquake-resistant high-security prison built out of reinforced steel and several tons of diamond.

The creature's eyes were like marbles, and as Harry stared into them he really, really hoped they wouldn't follow him round the room like paintings of scary people were wont to do. He moved a bit to the left, and, to his immense relief, they didn't.

It was at this point that Harry thought of a better metaphor for describing the new state of the once-Lupin creature; it was as if, in the millisecond before it tore out Vernon's larynx, the creature had died of cancer, then been painstakingly stuffed by a professional taxidermist, before being placed back in exactly the same position it had died in.

It was also at this point that Harry came to the conclusion that he was responsible for the miracle. He based this deduction on three things:

1) He'd just been told he was a wizard.

2) He'd accidentally done this sort of thing before, the unfortunate incident at the zoo being the most recent and memorable example.

3) At this point in his life, he (although of course he knew not the exact terms) considered himself an agnostic verging on atheist, and so refused to credit any form of divine intervention.

_Hmmn_, he thought to himself, _curiouser and_ _curiouser _(he had reached chapter five of Alice in Wonderland last week before Dudley unfortunately sat on the book, utterly shattering its spine and screwing up all the pages, and it had had a remarkable effect on his internal vernacular).

Harry turned to Vernon, his mind made up.

"Uncle Vernon, we've just been through a very… a very trau… a very scary time together, and I feel that you owe it to me to answer me straight – am I a wizard? And were my parents? Do you know anything? Really, I'd like it to know."

Uncle Vernon looked first from Harry, then to the in-essence-comatose Petunia, then back at Harry, then down at the post-meeting-with-a-time-travelling-taxidermist werewolf that had nearly killed him, then back at Harry, who, he knew, even if he really, _really_ didn't like it, had just saved his life.

When he did speak, it was gruffly, and with an ersatz air of indifference.

"Maybe… perhaps… yes, that's what we were told… damned if I believed it… though, after today…"

He trailed off.

Harry swallowed, and made a conscious effort to realign his mind. "Right, mind," he said conversationally, albeit internally, "you're going to have to shut up with you constant pleas about 'impossibilities' and 'our life isn't being written by Lewis Carroll, you prepubescent nincompoop', and just lump it, 'cos we've gone down the rabbit hole and this is how things are going to be from now on. Got it?" His mind nodded fervently (in a purely metaphorical sense, naturally), and he turned back to Vernon, a steely glint in his eyes where previously no steely glint had ever chosen to be.

"Right. This magically-frozen beastie isn't going to get rid of itself, Uncle Vernon."

* * *

Dumbledore stood in the middle of the road, just before the point where Wisteria Walk turned into Privet Drive. He stared down along the road, but No. 4 was concealed by his angle of view, a slight bend in the road and a large bush.

The remainder of the Order of the Phoenix taskforce were clustered behind him, in various states of grief, angst, despair, and all with a horrible sense of déjà vu – things hadn't felt so _wrong_ for almost a decade. Since the end of the Wizarding War, in fact.

"Are you sure, Dumbledore?" came Professor McGonagall's voice, dampened by the quiet of the night.

"Yes, Minerva, completely sure."

He reached out one wizened hand and elegantly placed it against the air directly in front of him. Obligingly, ripples flowed from his fingertips, and halted any further forward movement.

"He's right. If that's not a High-Durability, Apparition-Repellent Prismatic ward then I'm getting old. And I'm not. I'm just getting more experienced," growled Mad-Eye, "but anyhow, we'll need more than the powers of two-dozen wizards to break through it. It's nigh on impossible."

"Nevertheless, Alastor, I intend to try," said Dumbledore as he drew his wand and stood back a little from the invisible barrier, "doubtless this ward encircles the entirety of Privet Drive, and Harry is trapped inside. Along, I greatly fear, with Rubeus and Arabella's murderer."


End file.
